The Ache
by storybycorey
Summary: 1999: He pines for her so staggeringly at times, he can hardly bear it. The dull ache deep in his chest has become a part of him, part of his makeup, part of his existence. 2015: He can hardly bear it. The apathy. The numbness. The leaden throb of despondency has become a part of him, part of his makeup, part of his existence.
1. The Ache part one- Mulder

1999

He loves her.

He longs for her.

He pines for her so staggeringly at times, he can hardly bear it. The dull ache deep in his chest has become a part of him, part of his makeup, part of his existence. When he wakes in the morning, it settles there before he's even dragged himself from the bed. The anvil of its weight presses against him, pinning him in place amidst his tangle of twisted sheets, urging him to slip back into that dream world, where she's glorious and she's breathtaking and she's finally HIS.

Sometimes he allows that dream Scully to pull him back to her, with soft, flushed skin and heavy-lidded eyes and promises he hopes she intends to keep. But when he wakes a few minutes later, his hand clenched around his cock and her image dissolving before him, the ache slams back against him with even more force, stealing his breath and leaving him gasping in its wake.

He wonders each time whether those extra gauzy moments were worth the added pain. The answer is always yes.

By the time he makes it to work, he's become used to the ache. It's there throughout the day, crunching beneath his feet as he walks by her side, suspended in the elevator as they ascend to the lobby. It's the background music behind all of their conversations, slow and yearning and sweet.

Just another day at the office. Just another day of gathering her every move, every sigh, every look, and tucking them into the hope chest of his brain, to be pulled back out and cherished each night before falling asleep.

It is simply who he is now. Who he's become since she insinuated herself into his life.

And he treasures every second of it.

…

2015

He doesn't know how to love her anymore.

He barely remembers longing for her.

He's all but forgotten those used-to-be-familiar sensations. He's misplaced just about every emotion he's ever had beyond a dull, heavy ache of self-pity.

At times he can hardly bear it. The apathy. The numbness.

The leaden throb of despondency has become a part of him, part of his makeup, part of his existence. When he dreams, it's not of Scully and a hope for the future, it's of answers just out of reach, decisions that have gone awry. When he wakes, his hand no longer grips his cock, but instead grasps at the empty air, at the nothing that his life has become. And when he's able to pull himself away from the refuge of sleep, it's not to go to her. It's not to seek her comfort. It's to bury himself further beneath the pile that has risen so steadily between them.

She tries to draw him back to her, to coax him into conversation, to remind him of what they used to be. But he pushes her away, those reminders only forming a vice around his heart, squeezing more tightly with every word from her mouth. And so she learns to let him be, to stand back and watch helplessly as he slowly disappears.

By the time he's settled into his burrow each day, hunched over his keyboard, searching for answers, he's become used to the ache. It's there throughout the day, weighing on his shoulders as he obsessively cross-references, squeezing his eyes as he squints at the screen. It's a never-ending discord, buzzing and droning in the air around him, so monotonous he sometimes thinks he could scream.

Just another day trapped within the confines of his head. Just another day gathering evidence, examining information, and obsessing over the fucking futility of it all. Another day of tucking it away in the hoard of his brain, only to be unearthed late at night, as he lies next to her, trying not to weep at the sound of her sweet breaths beside him.

It is simply who he is now. Who he's become since he allowed the ache to take over his life.

And he despises every second of it.

…

1999

He dreams of her again this morning, and as his consciousness begins to re-emerge, he fights valiantly against it. He pushes away reality in favor of just a few more minutes wrapped tightly in sleep's embrace, a few more minutes with her.

Only something is different this time. /She/ is different. She is older, and with her added years, she has grown lonely, sad. She stands in the distance, a silent plea hovering in the air around her, and his chest pulls tight with anxiety. He tries to reach her, stretching his arms and moving closer, but she remains just barely out of reach. It is torture, seeing her pain yet being powerless to prevent it.

When he wakes, the ache is stronger than ever. The ache to be with her, the desire to enfold her in his arms and consume her, to press her so firmly against his soul their threads intertwine, incapable of ever, ever unraveling.

He realizes it was just a dream, an image drawn on his brain by his subconscious, yet the anxiety he's left with is real. He can't stand the thought that one day Scully could look at him with such sorrow.

He sometimes wishes he could look into the future. If only he knew what awaited them. If only he were certain that the path they're pursuing isn't completely in vain.

He would give anything to prevent her from sadness.

He longs for a crystal ball, pulsing and swirling with the answers. But if he were somehow given that chance, would he even be capable of asking the right questions?

…

2015

He barely makes it out of bed today, choosing sleep over the monotony of another dreary day. It's so much easier to sleep than to admit to himself the pointlessness of it all, his only motivation the senseless pursuit of a truth which will likely never be found.

But he knows she'll call him in a while to check in, as much as he's told her he doesn't need her assistance, so he begrudgingly rolls his body to look at the clock. It's 1:00 in the afternoon. She's been gone for hours, and he's at least grateful she hasn't been here to witness his indolence. As petulantly as he often behaves, the sadness in her eyes when she looks at him is sometimes unbearable. The tears that glisten beneath her lashes claw at him, leaving him weary and bleeding with the knowledge of what he's doing to her, what he's doing to /them/.

Sometimes he thinks he'd rather be alone than tormented by her pity, her disappointment. He'd rather be alone than be reminded of how impossibly he's failed her.

He finally gathers the energy to rise and make his way to the kitchen. He hopes a cup of coffee will be enough to nudge him, at least as far as his desk and computer, so that he can deaden his brain once more in the wasteland of a virtual world.

…

Disoriented, Mulder awakes to find himself outside, the sun at his back and the scent of wildflowers fresh in his nose. He hasn't a clue how he's arrived here. The last he remembers, he was lying in bed, yearning for a way to put a smile on his dream Scully's forlorn face.

His head feels stuffed with cotton, and he runs his fingers along his body to check for injuries. Finding none, he turns slowly around and attempts to make sense of his surroundings.

He finds himself standing before an unremarkable white house. It sits among acres of green grass and a forest of towering trees. The structure is chipped and beaten-down, but the front porch begs for iced tea and afternoon naps. Immediately and unintentionally, he feels an affinity for this little house. He briefly envisions a smiling Scully standing at the railing, sunshine warming her face and a breeze mussing her hair. He somehow knows that she'd love it here.

He makes his way across the dirt, and tentatively up the steps. As he reaches the porch, he pauses and steadies his breaths. What the hell is he doing? But curiosity gets the better of him, and he crosses slowly to the rickety screen door. Gingerly, he pulls it open and steps inside.

The interior is warm and lived-in, and he is surprised to feel completely at home. Though he'd have never imagined living in a place like this, suddenly he can envision it with utter clarity. Scully reading a book on the overstuffed couch, himself taking a nap, his head in her lap and Mozart lulling him to sleep.

His silent reverie is interrupted though, as he hears movement in the hall just outside his view. He turns toward the sound and stills, bracing himself for the unknown.

…

Shuffling down the hallway, coffee mug in hand, he is startled to hear footsteps on the porch. Scully isn't due back for several hours, and he can't remember the last time they had visitors, thank God. He cocks his head to listen, and his tired body suddenly goes on full alert as the front door squeaks open, and he hears someone enter the living room.

It's been ages since he's used his gun, and honestly, he's not even sure where it is, so he grabs the closest thing he can find, an umbrella from the bin in the hallway. Setting his coffee mug quietly down on the floor, he cautiously navigates his way toward the front room, avoiding the wood planks he knows will creak the loudest.

But when he makes it to the doorway, he suddenly couldn't care less about the creaking floor. He stops dead in his tracks and drops his mouth open in astonishment.

"Hooooly shit," he breathes, dropping the umbrella with a thunk on the floor, transfixed by what stands before him.

…

"Hooooly shit," he mutters in unison, as he looks sixteen years into the future, at a disheveled, bone-weary, unkempt version of himself. What the hell is going on here?

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the man demands of him.

Mulder is at a loss, for he has no good answers. He has no idea how he's gotten here, and at the moment, he is even a bit unconvinced of his own identity.

"Who ARE you?" the older man reaches back down to pick up the discarded umbrella.

"Okay, okay…," Mulder tries to sound calm, splaying his hands in front of his body to show he has no weapon, "I'm you, I think…, you from 1999, but I'm you. I'm Fox William Mulder, born October 13, 1961. I…I'm not sure why I'm here, how I got here…," he struggles, trying to sound convincing, knowing that this older version of himself has no reason to trust him. With the things they've seen, trust is something to be earned, not something to be handed out like candy.

"How can I be sure? How do I know you're not an imposter?" his older self asks cautiously.

"I…I…," he searches his brain from some proof, some information to which only HE is privy, "My partner is Dana Scully. I…I'm in love with her."

There is still apprehension in the other man's eyes as he counters, "That's not proof, anyone could have guessed that. I need proof."

He glances around the room, as if he can find evidence somewhere here, in this place that he's never been yet already feels like home. His eyes alight on a cordless phone, and he suddenly knows how to prove his identity.

"I save them," he says, looking directly into his future self's eyes, "I save her phone messages. Scully's. I save every one of her answering machine messages, and I play them back when I'm feeling desperate, when I need to hear her voice…"

The older man lays down the umbrella and scrubs his hands down his stubbled face, at least a week's worth of growth that hasn't seen a razor. He sits down on the couch and chuckles.

…

"Answering machines," he chuffs, "I haven't thought about answering machines for a long time. And her messages, yeah… yeah, I remember that," the smile somehow feels foreign on his face as he looks down into his lap, and he realizes how long it's been since his lips have turned up enough to hide in the creases of his cheeks.

He looks at the younger man in awe for a moment, shaking his head at the marvel of what seems to be occurring right in front of him.

"1999, huh?" he asks, trying hard to remember what it had been like then, what it had been like before their world had been turned so upside-down, before William, before the years of running, before he'd lost hope in the future.

"Yeah," the younger man grins as he sits in an armchair adjacent to the couch, "1999."

"So I suppose you're here to find out whether Y2K is a real threat then, right?" he asks, recalling the hysteria that had surrounded the turn of the millennium.

His younger self chuckles, then says, "Well, honestly I'm really not sure. The last I remember, I was asleep, or was I awake? I… I can't remember. What year is it anyway?"

"It's 2015," he says, still having a difficult time processing the fact that he is sitting across from his actual past self.

"2015," the young man's voice is full of wonder, "Sixteen years… You've seen so much, experienced so much. Tell me, tell me everything!"

He envies the hope, the fresh enthusiasm he sees in the man's face. He pauses as he considers how to most gently inform him of his future. But before he can begin, the younger man speaks again, "First though…, first…, I have to know. How is Scully? Where is she? Are you still…friends…? Are you still…together?"

Scully. He closes his eyes, unsure of where to start, unsure of how to tell him. That Scully is still here, but that he's failed her. That she stays late at work, because at least there she can carry on an actual conversation. That she cries at night when she thinks he is sleeping. That she's stopped even trying to ask him what's wrong, because he fails miserably each time he tries to give her an answer.

That he can't remember the last time he made love to her or even kissed her on the lips. That he's worried he's already lost her, even when she's right beside him.

"Ummm," he stumbles, grasping for words, "Scully and I… ummm, yes…, yes, we're still friends…, we're still…ummm….dammit, I'm actually not even sure what we are anymore…" He looks to the ceiling, sighing, then looks directly into his younger self's eyes. "Scully and I have been together…we've been… intimate… since the year 2000."

"2000? You mean…next year? 2000? Scully and I…finally?" the younger man's face holds an astonished expression, a bemused smile as he ponders the implications, and Mulder dreads smothering his fantasy.

"But…, well…, things haven't been going so smoothly lately," he says quietly, inspecting his untrimmed fingernails, "I'm…ummm… I'm kind of going through a rough patch these days…"

His younger self cocks his head, and the smile fades quickly from his face as he asks, "So…what does that mean? What are you telling me about Scully?"

"I…I think that Scully can't take much more…, I think that she probably should…," he stops, surprised at the lump in his throat and the tears that are burning the corners of his eyes. It's been so long since he's cried, so long since he's felt almost anything. He continues, "She probably should leave me. She probably should get the hell away from me…before I cause her any more pain."

…

He is shocked at what he hears. Utterly shocked. That at some point in his future he chooses to push Scully away. That they finally navigate their way into a relationship, and instead of treasuring the gift that is bestowed upon him, he tosses it away as if it means nothing. How is this scenario even real?

"I don't understand," he says angrily, "This is Scully you're talking about. Scully! How the hell are you not doing everything within your power to hold on to her?"

Suddenly, finding the truth, uncovering the answers to questions that have plagued him for decades, suddenly, none of that matters. Not now, when he realizes that Scully is unhappy, that his future self is the one making her unhappy.

"Listen," the older man says softly, "There are things that have happened, things you don't understand…"

"I don't give a shit! I don't care what's happened! Scully is the best thing in my life, she's fucking everything to me…, to us! How can you forget that? How can you deny everything she means to you? How can you forget how much you love her?"

He rises from his chair and begins to pace the room, disconcerted and frantic. His future self watches in silence until he finally calms down, stopping before a bookshelf in the corner. A simple silver frame sits on the top shelf, with a strip of photos tucked inside. He picks it up, and a whoosh of air escapes his lips. "This is her," he whispers, "This is Scully," and he strokes his fingertips across the glass as his eyes caress the images, "Her hair, it's longer… My God though, she's still just as beautiful."

His older self crosses the room to examine the photos as well. "That was from a photobooth a couple years ago… She didn't want to do it, but I dragged her in anyway," he smiles at the memory. A truck stop gift shop at which they'd stopped during a weekend trip, a few months before he'd begun to collapse.

"I can tell you still love her," the younger man pleads, "And that she still loves you…look…look at these photos! Your eyes, your smiles, you're gazing at each other, dammit!"

"I do not GAZE at Scully," the older man says with a smirk, and they exchange looks before returning to their seats.

"Seriously," Mulder says, "Don't you remember? How much you loved her? How desperately you longed for her? And you've got her now, but you're throwing that away! I cannot accept a future where she's…where she's mine…, and I willingly choose to let her go!"

His older self leans down to rest his elbows on his knees, then props his head in his hands, fingers rubbing his tired eyes. "Honestly, it just feels like it's been too long. It's been too long since I felt those things. There is so much crap piled on top of those emotions, I can barely remember them. I can barely remember what it felt like to really love her." He squeezes his eyes shut to stave off the tears, and Mulder can see he is struggling.

"Then let me remind you," he says gently, "Let me remind you of what it feels like to love Dana Scully."

…

Mulder looks across the couch to this younger version of himself, tears still pressing at the backs of his eyes. Unexpectedly, he detects a tilt in his balance. Just the four syllables of her name falling from his former self's lips have begun a tremor beneath him. He feels a vibration in his heart, a wavering in his core. Although he doesn't realize it, his tectonic plates are shifting, sliding, readying themselves for a transformation that's been far too long in the making.

The man's voice is wistful, quiet, soft with emotion as he begins to speak, "She's my first thought in the morning…, my last thought at night…. She's absolutely everything in between…."

He closes his eyes, trying to remember, trying to grab hold of the hovering emotions, the fleeting memories, as they waft transparently through his consciousness.

Of the early days, when thoughts of her were sometimes the only thing that kept him sane. Her voice, husky with sleep, when he'd wake her in the middle of the night, just to remind himself she was actually REAL. The warm milk and honey of her presence, reaching through the phone, soothing him, trickling thickly down his throat until his eyes drooped closed. Waking up in the mornings, the phone pressed against his cheek and her even breaths still whispering in his ear.

"Keep going," he whispers, "please…," his heart beginning to thrum with life, as he feels bits and pieces of emotion start settling in his bones. Pain and regret, but also love, desire. And it's wonderful, it's wonderful because he is actually FEELING.

"She grounds me, she's my anchor…. When my world is adrift, I turn to her and she reels me in." Mulder cracks open his eyes and looks to the younger man as he speaks, and for a moment, he can almost remember what it felt like so many years ago, to love her, to long for her so fiercely he could hardly bear it.

Evenings in hotel rooms, scattered throughout the country, files spread over polyester bedspreads like confetti. Sitting across from her, stealing glances as she tapped away on a laptop, delighting in every expression that crossed her face. A quizzical arch of her brow, a confused wrinkle of her forehead, a contemplative purse of her lips—each slight alteration more charming and alluring than the last.

Afternoons on their sprawling front porch, snuggled together against the cool fall breeze. Her hand on his thigh as she'd rise, her fingers trailing down his leg as she'd beckon him back into the house. Her seductive smile as she'd look back over her shoulder, letting him know exactly what was in store if he chose to follow her.

Her smile, oh, it had made him weak in the knees. Every damn time. It still does, if he's being honest. But it's been so long since he's seen her smile, so long… It's been so long since he's heard her laugh. He drops his forehead into the cradle of his hands and shakes his head in regret.

His past self looks at him, continuing, "Her eyes…, her lips…, her skin…, that cute little dip behind her knee…."

Whenever they'd made love, when he'd slid his tongue along her calf and dipped it between the tendons behind her knee. Her moan, when it escaped her lips, how it was the most erotic sound he'd ever heard. How all he had to do was run his fingers inside that little hollow, and she'd immediately be putty in his hands, pulling him to her and begging for more.

"I still love that spot behind her knee," Mulder murmurs, his eyes closed.

"Then how can you…?" the younger man breathes, "How can you give that up? How can you forget…? What I would give to kiss her, just once…"

Mulder sighs. Their first kiss—the zombies, his injured arm, Dick Clark on the television. And Scully. Standing beside him, scratches on her neck, but still the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid his eyes upon. There had been no decision made on his part that night, no pre-meditation. He had simply known, as her head had turned toward him, that it was their moment.

"New Year's Eve…," he says wistfully, closing his eyes, reliving the sensation of her lips upon his own, the moment stretching just as it had that night so long ago, when he'd known for sure that he wanted her forever, that there was nothing on earth he could ever imagine pulling them apart.

"What? What about New Year's Eve?" his younger self implores.

But Mulder only shakes his head, whispering, "My God, I loved her so much…, so much…" His tears have finally won the battle, and they begin sliding down his cheek, wetting his skin and disappearing into the stubble on his jaw, "I still do. I still love her desperately, but I just don't know … I don't know how I can ever make up for what I've put her through…"

"You've got to try," his younger self beseeches him, "It's Scully. You've got to fucking try."

…

A shrill ring suddenly interrupts their conversation. The older man reaches for the cordless phone, and upon looking at the screen, states painfully, "It's her."

"Now's your chance...," Mulder says, "Please take it…for me, for you, for Scully…" He has no idea of his purpose here today, of the reason behind his bizarre situation, but if he can do this, if he can somehow make things right with Scully, then he has no option but to try.

His future self looks at the phone in his hand, then squeezes his eyes shut in agony, allowing it to ring another two times.

"Please…," Mulder pleads. He is terrified that the Scully from his dream will forever be a reality, that even given this chance, he will be unable to prevent her pain and her sadness.

The man opens his eyes and finally pushes the button. "Hello?" he answers in a voice that's so graveled, so broken, the word is barely audible.

Mulder aches at the thought that she's right there, as close as the phone line, and he yearns to hear her voice, to see if it's just as rich and heady now as it is in the past. But he knows he shouldn't intrude. He needs to allow his future to unfold on its own. He stands and walks to the window, looking out onto the property and envisioning a life here, hiking through the woods, listening to the crickets, and if he's lucky, kissing Scully on the porch before they head into the bedroom for the night.

He catches glimpses of the conversation occurring behind him, "I'm okay, Scully, really… I…I was just thinking about some things….. about us… ummm... I was wondering whether you could come home now?... No, everything's fine, it's fine…, I just… I just need to see you… I want to see you…..."

Mulder breathes a sigh of relief, somehow sensing that the wheels have begun turning, the cogs are slowly clicking into place. Things may actually be okay.

Then, without warning, his body feels suddenly heavy, his limbs begin quivering. He grabs hold of the windowsill, trying to hold himself up. He turns to look back at his future self, but the man has laid down the phone and begun to weep. He tries to speak, to say goodbye, but he can already feel himself dissolving, his body disintegrating. He feels himself disappearing

His last thought before leaving is that New Year's Eve is only one month away.

…

As he hangs up the phone, he is overcome. With sadness, with joy, with every emotion fathomable, with all the feelings that have felt so utterly unattainable for so very long. He releases the sobs that have been confined within his chest, and he basks in the sensation. It is magnificent, just to feel, to burst through the paralyzing numbness that has plagued him for so long.

He looks up to thank his younger self and realizes the man is gone. For a moment, he wonders whether it's all been a dream, a trick concocted by his chaotic brain to finally push him over the edge. And then he finds that he doesn't care, because trick or not, he feels as if he's been reborn. He's been given a second chance, a chance to make things right with the woman he's loved for twenty-two desperate years.

The woman who is, at this very moment, coming home to see him.

He realizes that he's in dire need of a shower and a shave, if he wants to have any chance of convincing her of his renewed spirit, so he rises and heads toward the bathroom.

On his way, he stops for a moment at the photobooth strip on the bookcase. He looks at the two of them captured for those few brief moments, grinning in the first images, then simply gazing at each other in the rest. And he realizes his younger self had been right. The people in those photos are undeniably in love.

Tears resurface in the corners of his eyes.

He places the frame back on the shelf and makes his way to the bathroom. As he walks, he feels the ache, poised once again in his chest.

But it's different now. Instead of weighing him down, it's lifting him up. Instead of holding him back, it's prodding him forward. For the first time in years, it's an ache of longing, a yearning for the love he thought he'd forgotten.

It's the most magnificent pain he's ever felt.

….

continued in chapter two


	2. The Ache part two- Scully's Ache

1999

She loves him.

She longs for him.

Never in a million years could she have foreseen how easily he'd take hold of her heart. Never could she have predicted how effortlessly she'd let it go.

But she has. Let it go. He holds her beating heart in his hands, and she can't imagine ever taking it back. She can't imagine ever wanting to.

She has never felt such yearning, such a desire for another human being. At times she can hardly bear it—the warmth of his cheek while he whispers in her ear, the press of his fingertips while he guides her from a room… Her body betrays her every time, flushing her skin, tightening her nipples, and quickening each breath as it escapes her lips.

He makes her feel cherished. Adored.

Terrified.

She sometimes feels as if she no longer has boundaries, no longer has hard edges within which to contain herself. He's bled through all her cracks, walked through all her doors, no matter how many times she's tried to close them. And though it frightens her, it also stimulates her, excites her, makes her long for more. Makes her wonder which of her other body parts he'd like to hold in his hands, and how long she'd pretend to protest before finally giving in.

Because she knows she'll give in. It's only a matter of time.

….

2015

She loves him.

Even after everything, she still loves him. Fiercely.

She longs for him.

For the man who captured her heart twenty-two years ago, cradling it in his hands ever since. Sometimes she thinks he'll hold it forever, that she'll never be free of him, even if that were what she really wanted.

But that's not what she wants. All she wants is for him to be her Mulder again, for him to talk to her, to look at her, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear while she rolls her eyes and pretends not to hang on every word dripping from his mouth.

But her Mulder hasn't been here for a while; he began fading several years ago. Little by very little. Like an old photograph hanging on the wall. His colors paling with each passing year, his edges blurring with each new season.

And now…. Now, he's almost unrecognizable. It hurts each time she looks at him.

She can't remember the last time they had a meaningful conversation or took a walk outside. She can barely recall how long it's been since he made love to her, or even when they last kissed. She wonders whether he hears her crying herself to sleep.

But their history is so strong, so full of depth, letting go feels impossible. Even now, after everything that's happened, her heart still lingers in his hands. She feels it slipping though, sliding. It's close to plummeting through the spaces between his fingers and landing with a wet splat against the cold, hard floor. And he's making no effort to stop it.

Her heart is going to fall. It's only a matter of time.

….

1999/2000

She dreamt of him last night.

She dreams of him almost every night. Touching her, caressing her, skating his fingers across her body while his lips follow close behind. His breath hot against her neck as he thrusts himself inside her, again and again and again.

For years, she denied the dreams, pushed them back in her mind until they were buried. But lately, they are too intense to be hidden away. So she has finally accepted them, embraced them even. When the pulsing of her core nudges her awake, she helps it along, slicking her fingers through her folds and pinching her nipples until she comes, his name escaping her lips in a harsh gasp.

It's all she can do to mute the longing that sings through her body. It's all she can do to keep the yearning from overcoming her, from distracting her with its presence all damn day.

It's New Year's Eve. The entire world is celebrating, yet they've spent the day tangling with zombies. Christmas Day passed while they loomed over an empty grave. When did her life cease being a life? And why isn't she even the tiniest bit upset over it?

She knows why.

Something's different lately—she can feel it. For seven years, they've been on this roller coaster ride, twisting, turning, speeding around corners so quickly, it takes her breath away. But instead of zooming around the curves lately, they've been climbing, ascending up the first tall hill of the ride, inch by agonizing inch. When she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the metal wheels turning beneath them as they edge closer and closer to the top.

But she'd rather climb endlessly up a hill than sit still on the ground. She'd rather a slight chance of a thrill with him than guaranteed mediocrity with anyone else. It's a truth she spent years fighting, but one she has finally come to accept.

The thought both thrills and terrifies her.

Because she has no idea what awaits on the other side. All she knows is there's no stopping it. It's too late to step off the ride now. Reaching the top has become inevitable.

Standing in a hospital corridor, they watch the clock tick down. She smiles quietly as the numbers draw closer to zero. The ball drops, and though she is focused on the screen above their heads, she feels a pull, feels the whisper of his eyes brushing across her cheek. She turns. Beneath them, there is a jolt, a click as the wheels of their car roll over that final piece of track before peaking at the top.

In seconds that stretch far more slowly than she'd have thought possible, she watches as his face enters her atmosphere. It descends, descends, until finally he reaches her lips. She has no time to think before her eyes slip closed, then all she can feel are his soft, soft lips—warm, electric—and her stomach, dropping as they plummet so quickly down the incline, it makes her dizzy.

When he finally pulls away, she has to fight not to bring her trembling fingers up to her mouth, to touch the spot where his lips just were. It tingles, it burns, it sizzles.

She is shocked and giddy and afraid and a million other emotions she has yet to analyze. But instead of letting him see this, she tilts her head and smiles. He tells her the world didn't end.

No, it most certainly didn't. In fact, it may have just begun.

As they walk out to the car, she tries her best to calm her wildly thumping heart.

She fails quite miserably.

….

2015

She calls him during a lull in her schedule, and as she dials the number, she prepares herself. She never knows which Mulder she'll encounter these days. The phone rings once, twice, three times, and she wonders if this may be a day he doesn't answer at all. Those days are the hardest, because when she can't speak with him, her mind begins to wander, and its destinations are never sunny and tropical.

She's about to disconnect when she hears his voice, crumbling to pieces across the line. "Is everything okay?" she asks, trying to sound calm and encouraging, even though her heart is now pounding with worry.

When he asks her to come home, there's no way she can deny him. She lost that ability years ago.

She takes a deep breath as she pulls up to the house. Somehow she senses that this day is significant, monumental. She hopes she has the strength to navigate her way through it.

The old screen door squeaks as she enters, and as she turns to set down her purse, she pauses—there's something here. A fragrance, one that stirs her memory once she realizes its origin. Mulder's cologne, the one he wore back before… , before everything—before William, before the years on the run, before the unraveled mess their life has now become.

Tears spring to her eyes. She generally tries not to think about those days, but the smell brings the memories back in a rush. Of the heat that radiated from his body when he'd whisper in her ear, of the spark in his eyes when they'd engage in a debate. Or of the bliss of his lips against her breast when they finally succumbed, so many, many years ago…

She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the thoughts before they cause her any more pain. It's unfair that she can't even remember the good times without her heart aching.

Approaching the bedroom, she hears water running, and stills herself in anticipation. Her tongue swipes across her lips—it's a nervous habit she's never been able to break. There are lots of habits she's never broken throughout the years. He is undoubtedly the biggest.

"Scully," his voice is quiet, and she draws in a shocked breath as he appears. She can hardly believe the man who stands before her. It's been so long since she's seen him shaven, cleaned, dressed in anything but sweats and an old T-shirt.

But his well-groomed appearance isn't what takes her aback, at least not completely. It's his eyes—she'd forgotten how beautiful his eyes could be. For months, they've been lifeless, a stagnant pond filmed over with algae the color of broken bottles. But right now, they are the ocean, the tides, rolling and churning with life. In his eyes, she sees the Mulder of five, ten, fifteen years ago. Her Mulder. She sees the man she fell in love with, the man she's missed with a fierceness she didn't even know existed within her.

And for him now to be standing back before her…

She knows clean clothes and a shower aren't enough to wash away weeks, months of depression, but to see him this way is just… more than she could have hoped for in even her most desperate hour.

When he gently reaches his hand to her, she is completely undone.

….

2000

There is no conversation on the ride home. There is only silence and a palpable tension. The air is so thick, she finds it hard to breathe except in short, shallow pants.

Her head replays their kiss again and again and again. The seconds leading up to it, the euphoria of the "during", the crooked quirk of his smile immediately following. She cannot stop licking her lips, hoping each time to catch a taste of him, though he's long since been absorbed into her body.

It could have been nothing, just a celebratory kiss. But it could also have been EVERYTHING.

The ache that has lived in her chest for close to seven years is throbbing. It is slowly expanding, threatening to consume her. She has never wanted someone the way that she wants him. She has never needed someone this way. He both overwhelms her and takes her breath away.

They reach his apartment, and she turns off the engine. He seems unfazed when she glances at him, until she notices the very corner of his lip worrying beneath his teeth. Her heart skips.

Gathering every ounce of courage she possesses, she looks down and murmurs, "Mulder, why did you kiss me tonight?" She hopes he can't feel the weight that is hanging off her words. Or maybe she hopes that he can. Maybe she's ready for them to finally confront the depth of emotion that hovers in the air between them every damn second of the day.

She feels his gaze as he turns his head, and her fingers fumble in her lap. "It's tradition, Scully… You're supposed to kiss your best girl on New Year's Eve, aren't you?" A warmth surges through her veins at his words, but she knows he's diverting, and she doesn't want to allow him that luxury. They've just barreled down a magnificent mountain—she doesn't want to let yet another opportunity slip away. Their relationship is a string of missed opportunities, and she can't bear to add another bead.

Turning, she meets his eyes. She recognizes the heat she sees there, because the same fire burns within her as well. She whispers, "Tell me why really, Mulder…"

His tongue slips out to wet his lips and she draws in a breath at the sight. His bedtime-story voice is soft and intimate in the confines of the car, "Scully, did you know that the song Auld Lang Syne was never intended to be a holiday song?"

She nods.

"It's meant to celebrate endings, beginnings. It's a plea for appreciating long-standing friendships, it's a request for memories not to be forgotten," he continues quietly.

"I know, Mulder, but…?"

He cuts her off before she finishes, "Scully, you're the most important relationship I've ever had. And tonight, when I heard that song, I just… I couldn't imagine ever forgetting that, Scully. Regardless of what happens in the future, I NEVER want to forget that, I never want to forget you… You're precious to me, Scully… You're my best girl," he cocks a grin at her, "and I wanted to kiss you to let you know that."

She feels a schoolgirl flush dip through her body. "I'm your best girl, Mulder?" she asks him, her eyebrow raised in doubt. Her voice sounds needy and breathy. She's almost embarrassed, but Jesus, she FEELS needy right now beneath his gaze.

"Scully," he says huskily, "you're my ONLY girl." He reaches across the seat with his good arm and caresses the skin along her jaw. Her lips part and her breath quickens. "You've been my only girl for a very, very long time…"

Her heart is a canary, fluttering against the birdcage of her chest, struggling to be free. He is capable of reducing her to her rawest form with so little. She is a suddenly a hot bundle of want, pulsing against his fingertips.

She lifts her chin and tilts it more fully into his hand, closing her eyes and thinking of all the events that have led her to this very second. This pivotal, overflowing-with-possibilities, aching second.

Then she slides them open and whispers, "Mulder, do you think you could do it again?"

….

2015

Her cheeks are wet before she even realizes she's crying, and she crumples into a soft pile beneath the doorway, emotions flooding her body. She's erected so many dams lately, it is a glorious release to finally let them free. Anguish, sadness, and relief flow hot through her veins like a drug, until she is so immersed, she fears she may drown.

But he surrounds her, he curls himself around her body and keeps her afloat. He holds her like she's the most precious treasure he's ever possessed. Because she is, and somehow, amazingly, he had forgotten.

"Scully," he murmurs while she clutches at his shirt, desperate to keep him here beside her, desperate to know that this is not some cruel nightmare. He pulls her more fully into his lap and presses his lips to her temple, rocking her until the rhythm has settled into her bones like a metronome, until she is quiet.

She pulls back to look him in the face, her eyes still wet with tears, and she whispers, "Mulder, what's happened to you?" Her eyes and her fingertips trace the edge of his jaw, the curve of his ears, the slope of his neck. She reassures herself that his outlines are real, they're precise, they're solid.

His head drops to her shoulder. "I was reminded of some things today, Scully. Of some things I've let myself forget…"

"Tell me, Mulder, tell me what's happened…," she pleads, her hands raking through his hair like a child's through blades of grass, full of wonder at the texture and the cool slide.

"What's happened isn't important," he rumbles against her blouse, "What's important is that I forgot, Scully… I forgot about us…, I forgot about you and me." She leans into his warmth and listens. "I forgot how goddamn lucky I am that you walked through my door twenty-two years ago. And how utterly and completely in love with you I've been ever since."

"Mulder," she whispers, kissing the shell of his ear.

"I don't know how I could forget, Scully," he says, tears in his voice, "I don't know how I could let so much pile between us, but I did… I did, and I'm so sorry, Scully, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Shhhh," she wishes the shudder of her breath could blow it all away, could sweep away the hurt and the distance and the past until it scatters like dust on a windy day. She knows there is so much more to be said. But for now, this is enough. For now, there is this. There is Mulder, and there is an emptiness that has begun to fill, an ache that has started to heal.

His lips find her throat, and he sucks at her pulse. Her breath hitches.

God, there is this.

….

2000

'Mulder, do you think you could do it again?' When the question falls from her lips, his hand twitches against her cheek in response. Question, answer. Stimulus, response. They play this game thousands of times a day. But never have they encountered a round that will change the rules so completely.

She is hanging by a thread, dangling herself before him in offering. She can hardly breathe. Her lips tremble, and so do other parts of her body. In fear, in anticipation, in hunger.

She is so aroused right now, she has lost sight of anything but his jawline, darkened with a day's stubble, curving down into his neck like a sand dune. She would give anything to taste his gritty sand-stubble with her tongue, to know whether he is salty or sweet.

Seconds feel like hours with her question in the air, and when she can stand it no longer, she brings her eyes to meet him. "Please?" she whispers, her brows furrowed in desperation, the word barely discernable through the thickened air.

"God…," his voice is a tortured groan, "Hell yes, Scullll…," but the "y" of her name dissolves between them as they enter each other's orbits. Their lips draw together, fiercely, fervently, and this time, it is clear there will be no stopping.

Wet heat, rolling against her lips, sliding, gliding across her skin… It is exquisite, feeling his warmth, his texture. In an hour's time, she had already grown to miss it.

She learns his mouth with the same intensity she applies to all the things about which she's most passionate. And when his tongue slips deftly between her teeth, she learns that, too. She threads her fingers through his hair, holding him there so as not to miss a single detail.

His lips, they're soft, they're agile, as they conform to the contours of her mouth. She never would have thought she could grow addicted to him so quickly. But she has. Already. It's heaven the way he sucks her lower lip into his mouth, the way he catches it on its way back out with his teeth. When she hears the 'pop' of its release, her nipples tighten in anticipation.

Before long, it's not enough. Trying to touch him, to kiss him, while stretched across the console, is too much work for her singularly-focused body. She climbs quickly into his lap, their lips never parting. The vibrations of his moan reach all the way into her belly. And beyond. These are no longer chaste, sweet, "you're my best girl" kisses. These are "I've waited seven years and I'm absolutely desperate for you" kisses, full of tongue and teeth and desire.

Now that they've begun, she can't get enough of him; the undulations of her hips against his pelvis are quickly becoming more insistent. The feel of him, hard and straining beneath her, is intoxicating. She has wanted him for so many years, her longing is suddenly unbearable. She is a wave, crashing into his rocks, slipping between his crevasses, trying to drag him back out to sea.

Groaning harshly, he pulls away and draws their foreheads together, "Scully…, we've got to hold on a minute here… we can't do this out here… out in the car…"

She chuckles through gasping breaths, suddenly slightly embarrassed by her behavior. But the thumping of her heart and her drenched panties are enough to will the shame away.

Embarrassed or not, she wants him. Tonight.

He draws her face down to kiss her gently once more, then murmurs against her lips, "My apartment?"

She smiles against his mouth and nods her head, readying herself for the ride still yet to come.

….

2015

His tongue slides along the column of her throat, and she can't stop the whimper that escapes her lips. It's been so long, so long. Her skin has regenerated itself since he last touched her, and her new cells are hypersensitive, quivering beneath him.

She drags him up to her mouth so she can taste him, so she can test the realness of him with her tongue and remember the flavor she'd almost forgotten. And when their lips finally meet, she is overwhelmed. She grips the base of his scalp, pressing him tightly against her so she can drink him in.

He tastes just the way she remembers him, but richer, fuller. He tastes like communion, like life sliding down her throat after months and months of death. Like renewal, rebirth, HOME. She can't get enough of him, she can't fill her mouth or her hands or her body with enough of him to satisfy the empty ache still burning inside. But she tries. Frantically, she tries.

He cradles her head and pulls back to find her eyes. "Shhhh, Scully," he whispers, "I'm here, I'm here…"

But it's not enough yet. She needs to know he's real. "Mulder," she murmurs, "I just… I've just missed this so much," her hands smooth across his chest, down the length of his arms, as her lips fight not to tremble, "I need to know this is real."

He draws her into the curve of his chest and engulfs her. "Oh Scully…, honey…," the wet of his mouth catches on the strands of her hair, as he speaks against her temple, "It's real. I'm real. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm real… I'm so sorry I've made you doubt that."

He draws up her chin and lowers his lips, then kisses her softly, gently, reverently. When he pulls away, she meets his eyes and whispers, "Show me."

….

2000

He holds her hand on the elevator ride up, and that makes her heart race perhaps even more strongly than anything else. It's the first time his hand has touched hers in a context that goes beyond friends, beyond comfort. This touch is purely sexual. And when he rubs his finger across the back of her palm, her knees go positively weak.

Once inside his apartment though, she lingers at his door, suddenly fidgety and floundering. She's not sure what to do with eyes that were, five minutes ago, heavy-lidded with ecstasy, fingers that were in his hair, a tongue that was roaming the inside of his mouth.

But he rescues her. He steps before her and tilts her head up to meet his eyes. He whispers, "It's just me, Scully," and she's speeding, speeding around the track again, because his lips have captured her own, and it's the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

Her bewildered fingers find their way back quickly, slipping around his waist and tunneling beneath his T-shirt, searching out the expanse of his sinuous back. His hand kneads through the hair at the base of her scalp, and she hums at the unexpected pleasure of it. The rumble of his answering groan slides down her throat like syrup. He devours her, sucking at her lips, nipping her jaw, sliding his tongue along her neck so sensuously she gasps.

He guides her across the room to his couch, groaning as he drags himself from her lips to sink into the squish of leather. God, the fantasies she's had about this very piece of furniture. She stands for a moment before him, light-headed, swaying, taking in the sight of him— hair mussed, lipstick smudged across his lips, and a lust in his eyes that makes her breath catch in her throat. Even with an injured arm, he is still the sexiest thing she's ever seen.

He reaches with his good arm to lightly grasp her hip, then growls, "C'mere Scully…" in a voice so deep and graveled, she hears it as it crumbles to the floor.

She feels wanton, heavy. She slides off her blazer, then slowly, deliberately, places a knee down on either side of his thighs, looking down into his greedy eyes. He tries to pull her into his lap, but she stops him by twisting her fingers through his hair. "Wait a minute, Mulder…," she murmurs, "I just want to get more…," she reaches to her waist, pulling her shirt over her head, "…comfortable…." Arching an eyebrow, she smiles coquettishly at him in triumph.

He grunts in surprise, then groans low in his chest, "Hell yeah, Scully…," his eyes immediately dropping to her breasts, encased in silky black satin, her nipples already protruding underneath. She lowers slowly into his lap, her center throbbing at the way his eyes follow her so shamelessly.

"Can I touch you, Scully?" he whispers, eyes never leaving his intended target, fingers trembling against her skin.

"Oh God… please, Mulder…," and she rocks herself involuntarily against him, arching her back with want. His mouth is there almost immediately, hot and wet through the satin of her bra, sucking, stroking, while his palm cradles her weight below. His tongue traces circles around her nipple, and a soft squeak escapes her throat.

"Seven years, Scully…," his voice is muffled as he kisses his way across her cleavage, "…I've dreamt of this for seven fucking years…,"and his lips find her other nipple with astounding accuracy. She hums, agreeing with him wholeheartedly. Then she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, slinking it off beneath him.

He pauses briefly, stunned, then thirstily swipes his tongue across her exposed nipple, leaving it slick, hard, begging for more. But instead of continuing, he leans back, a slow hiss whistling between his teeth. She can't stop her disappointed whimper.

"I just… I just need to look at you, Scully…," he breathes.

She's tempted to whine in frustration, but then she feels his eyes on her, tracing her, charting her, revering her. He's slow, he's thorough, and he's sexy as hell. A raw hunger spreads across his face, leaving his mouth slack, his eyes hooded. He looks at her and whispers, "Scully, fuck… fuck, you're so beautiful…," and then he's lowering his head again, claiming her swollen breast for his own.

"Oh Godddd," she sighs, her head lolling back on her neck, her sex wet with desire. His mouth on her sensitive skin feels like cool water, flowing over hot, blistering stones. She can almost hear the sizzle, feel the steam as it rises off her body. She arches her back, thrusting her breasts into his mouth, willing him to never, never stop.

"Ughhh…," his mouth is full with her flesh, "Can't believe I only have one hand to work with here…," his lips slide their way back to her mouth, "…so many places I want to touch you right now…," and he slips his good hand beneath the curve of her ass, steadying her as he thrusts into the spread of her legs.

"S'okay, Mulder," she gasps, "You're doing more than fine..." She grinds her pelvis against him for emphasis. "My only regret is that I'm missing out on the view…," she sighs against his lips, working her hand beneath his shirt and scraping her nails along his abdomen, "…wouldn't be smart to remove your sling until tomorrow though…ohhhhh…," he interrupts her with his tongue at her ear, tracing the delicate curve with staggering precision.

"Buuuut...," she whispers while suckling the stubble beneath his jaw, "I don't think there would be any problem with us removing your pants..." His hips buck roughly beneath her.

"Well, if it's doctor's orders...," he murmurs, arcing his neck for her to scrape her teeth across its tendons.

"Oh yeahhhh...," her throaty voice drawls, "It's most definitely doctor's orders," and she's already working on his belt, sliding it through its loops and going for the button, while his finger scripts love notes onto the stationary of her back.

"Lift," she orders him softly, her thumbs hooked beneath both his pants and his boxers. She works quickly, and in seconds, is tossing the whole mess behind her shoulder with gusto. Stilling, she turns to take him in. He is gorgeous. Thick, hard, straining into the lust-filled air that surrounds them. She arches her brow in appreciation, and can't keep her tongue from trailing along her lips as well.

She reaches for him, but he stops her gently with a hand to her wrist. "You, too, Scully...," he urges hungrily, motioning toward her pants with his finger. She hesitates for only a second, searching out his eyes, then sheds herself of her remaining clothing as well.

She stands, feeling somewhat breathless, exposed before him completely for the very first time. But the look of absolute reverence on his face soothes any insecurities she'd even begun to entertain. "Christ, Scully...," he utters, entranced, "How… how did we ever wait this long?" And he's drawing her in, pulling her back to his lap, pressing her against his chest. As if she's his only truth, his answer amidst a lifetime of unanswered questions.

She is momentarily overwhelmed, that they are actually here, that they've finally allowed themselves to reach this peak. But her reverie is quickly interrupted as his hard heat brushes her inner thigh. The touch is electric, traveling straight to her clit, igniting there, adding kindling to her fire. A surge of wetness wells within her.

She slides slowly forward, corner of her lip restrained beneath her teeth, gasping as her soft meets his hard after so many years of wanting. Their moans tangle in the air as she grinds herself against him. "Ungh…, fuck, Scully," he gasps, trailing his fingers down her ribcage to grip the polished protrusion of her hipbone, stilling it as he thrusts against her. Slowly, deliberately, he slides himself through the dampened silk of her folds, once, twice, three times, "Jesus, you're so wet for me…."

"Mulder…," she whimpers, struggling against his restraining hand on her hip, wanting more, needing friction. She is suddenly throbbing, desperate to crush herself against him. Desperate to ease the delicious ache that's been torturing her all night. He releases his hold, and she rolls against him with a sigh, her parted lips breathing harshly into the scruff of his jaw.

"Mulder, I want…," she doesn't know if she wants to wait any longer, doesn't know if she even can. Seven years has been enough wait to last her a lifetime. She reaches between them, lifting herself up, ready to take this last bit of him finally inside her body. He takes himself in hand, and she trembles as he nudges his head against her slickened flesh, resisting the urge to slide down and envelop him all in one hungry stroke. "Please, Mulder," she whispers, barely able to contain herself.

Positioning himself at her entrance, he looks into her eyes. She nods her head, almost imperceptibly, and it's all the encouragement he needs. He pulls her down and slides himself inside, gently, gradually, while her muscles relax themselves around him. Her eyes slip shut and her head rolls back, and a moan echoes deep inside her chest.

And when they finally move, it's divine. It's more than divine—the in-and-out, the push-and-pull, impossibly magnified in this single, elongated, perfect moment in time. He's already reading her body as if she's a novel he's studied a thousand times.

She looks into his face and is awed by his magnificence, neck straining, mouth slack, sweat beading at his brow. She could come just from the look of him, just from the sound of her name bursting from his gasping lips, as he watches her breasts sway alongside their rhythm.

They move in time with her heartbeat, surging, swelling, increasing, increasing, until both her heart and her body are thrumming with an intensity that is close to overwhelming. She feels the familiar buzz, that pinpoint pressure building within, and she looks into his eyes. She is lost in them, drowning, her breath quickening, fingers clenching. She reaches for him, to feed her arousal with lips pressed against his skin. And when he sucks her hungry tongue into his mouth, she groans at the utter bliss of it.

One more thrust, and then she's coming, she's coming, she's rising up, then raining back down, pouring over him as he follows her, sobbing her name and pounding into her with an abandon she'd never have believed possible.

And, my God, it is exquisite, it's incomparable. It's the most thrilling roller coaster ride she's ever been on, multiplied an infinite number of times.

It's everything. She can't imagine ever wanting anything else.

….

2015

As their clothes skim off their bodies, she can't help but think about snakes shedding their skins, abandoning the old in favor of the new, discarding the damaged and embracing the restored. The two of them have perfected this process through the years. She'd like to think they're now experts.

His naked skin is paler than she remembers, but still just as lush, as she steps forward to meet him. Her fingers tremble when they finally make contact. Hesitantly, she traces him, following the camber of his muscles, the planes of his flesh. How is it that he can feel brand new and galaxies old at the very same time?

"Touch me, Mulder," she murmurs desperately, catching his eyes in her snare. She can't rebuild this fortress on her own.

With a low moan, he reaches for her, grasping her hips and pulling her roughly against him. She chokes back a sob and presses her lips to his chest in relief. When she rises up onto her toes, he meets her halfway. Their kiss is slow, seductive, full of yearning and tenderness and tongue. Her mouth skids over him hungrily, trying to scoop him into the hollow of her cheeks, trying to swallow him. She's been empty for far too long, and she's suddenly ravenous.

She grips his ass and crushes herself to him, her leg hooking behind his knee, her slick center grazing his thigh. "Scully… God, I've missed you… missed this…," he rasps, finding the creases beneath her rear and lifting her into his arms. She's been here so many times, she doesn't even need to think. Legs linked around his torso, hands burrowed through his hair, skin damp between them—it's muscle memory, it's riding a bike, it's home.

He cradles her shoulder blades and trails his lips along her clavicle. Knowing where he's headed, she arches her back and thrusts forward to meet him. When his searching lips find her nipple, she gasps, flushing the color of cotton candy. It's exquisite, experiencing this with him again, relearning, remembering, renewing. He knows everything about her, the way to curve his tongue and lap at her until she can't see straight, the way to suck at her peaks until she's quivering.

He turns to lay her gently onto the bed, and she claws at him, pulling him down, not wanting to lose contact for even a moment. But he pulls from her grasp, taking hold of her hand and scooting his way down her body. She holds him like a lifeline, but drowns anyway, in the sensation of his tongue twisting its way around her ankle. "Mulder," she sighs, shuddering when the air meets the wet trail along her calf. She had forgotten the effect he has on her, the way he can distill her to her most elemental structure, just flesh and bones and desire.

And, oh Godddd, she'd also forgotten the feel of his tongue in that spot behind her knee, the tip circling her skin like a protractor. She hums deep in her throat, in praise of his glorious attention to detail.

He crawls back up her body, and she welcomes his heavy weight. She's missed the comfort of having him pressed against her. She twines her legs around his hips and arcs up into the heat of him, his cock grinding insistently against her center.

The two of them fumble with their hands, fingers tangling for dominance. They reach between the press of their bodies and maneuver him into the cleft between her thighs. And when one of them is finally declared the victor, they celebrate in unison, filling the air with their throaty moans.

He finds the places deep inside her that only he can reach, and he soothes them until they no longer ache. Thrusting, thrusting, she pulls his torso against the pillow of her heavy breasts, and tucks his head into the space beside her own. She breathes hot against his muggy neck and holds him so tightly, their skin suctions together with sweat.

She loves this position, this place with him, when they are clutched together and moving as one. Their old bed squeaking, thumping against the wall, his lovely, low grunts holding conversation with her delirious whimpers. They've come back to themselves in this tumbled mess of sheets countless times, and she's so grateful for the opportunity to do it once again.

"Jesus, Mulder…," she gasps as his movements increase, and she sinks her fingers into the flesh of his back. They are writhing together, ebbing, flowing, her entire core pulsing from the pounding drive of him. She pulls him to her lips, the spread of her fingers at his neck. She has always loved kissing him during lovemaking, climbing to that summit while he swallows her sobs, sucking his lifeforce into her throat as he spills his seed into her body.

"Scully," he murmurs frantically against her lips. Her clit twitches sharply at his desperate tone.

Working her hand between the throb of their bodies, she finds the place that will carry her over the edge, and grinds her fingers fervently against it. Circling, circling, she's already agonizingly close. "Mulder…, Muld…, Mulllll…," she gasps, and he slams once more inside her, striking her match, until she's bursting, exploding, contracting around him with a ferocity she hasn't felt in years.

And he follows her, her name falling from his lips, his body shuddering atop her skin. In a release she can tell has been far too long in waiting. Gasping, she softly kisses his dampened skin, lightly strokes his unruly hair. Gazes into eyes that had almost forgotten how to see. She releases a breath held captive for so long, she can't even remember inhaling. She closes her eyes and smiles.

He rolls them over and takes her in his arms. Then he holds her like he's forgotten how to let go.

She is in absolutely no hurry to remind him.

….

2000

She wakes to the earliest light of the morning, still moody blue, lying in his bed. Her head pillowed on his bicep, her leg crooked across his hip. His breaths heavy and slow beside her. It takes a moment for the reality of the night to settle itself upon her, and she smiles once she feels its weight.

She'd never have thought something as cliché as a New Year's kiss would be the straw to break her camel's back. That a day spent wrestling zombies would be an end, and an evening spent in a psych ward would be a beginning. But at this point, she's beyond being surprised about anything in their lives, least of all the eternal roller coaster of their relationship.

She can't help but feel a bit giddy as she looks to the future. The hard part is finally over. They've found their way to each other. The world didn't end. She has no idea where this new ride is going to take them, and she realizes that's okay. Whether they soar into the clouds, dive into the sea, or even just twist and turn endlessly here on the land, she is certain of one thing.

He will always hold her heart in his hands. It's been there for seven years, and it will be there for ten, fifteen, twenty more. It will be there forever. She's sure of it.

She takes his hand from where it rests on her arm, wrapping it across her chest. Until it lays on the beginning swell of her left breast. Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. His hand vibrates atop her skin.

She'll never ask for it back.

He owns it now.

And she aches from the joy of it.

….

2015

She can hardly believe how the day has transformed itself. How the man she left still asleep in their bed this morning is now lying beside her, content, sated, and gazing across the pillow at her as though he has finally found his truth. It seems inconceivable. But who is she to question it? When today feels like an answer to her most frequently uttered prayer?

Smiling, she slides her fingers down his still heaving chest, bared and damp to the touch. "Ah, Scully…," he murmurs, in awe, in satisfaction.

"Water?" she asks, as she moves to roll out of the bed.

"Hmmm," he nods, smiling, grabbing hold of her hand as she slips away, maintaining their connection until she is out of his grasp.

In her satin robe, she makes her way to the kitchen, re-emerging with two full glasses. To carry into the bedroom, in the middle of a weekday afternoon. She feels almost giddy. She can't even remember the last time they made love in the afternoon, or the last time she came home in the middle of the week.

The glint of a silver frame catches her eye. She'd almost forgotten that day, their two bodies squashed into the little booth while seconds ticked by on a screen in front of them, prompting them to kiss, to smile, to pose. They look happy, in love. She wonders whether she's wearing the same smile on her face now that she wore in those photos.

She slips back into the bedroom to the cadence of his deep, even sleep breaths. But she doesn't mind. The water can wait. She cannot. This morning, she was barely hanging on. He was drifting away, her heart slipping through his fingers. She'd had no idea how she would survive if it were to fall. Thank God she hadn't needed to find out.

His back is warm and his arms are heavy as she cuddles herself into his shell. His sleepy hum is a lullaby. Her heart keeps beat with the tune. She draws his arm across her body to rest his hand upon her chest. Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. Her skin tingles beneath the weight of his palm. His fingers twitch in sleep.

She knew he wouldn't let her heart drop. She knew.

And she aches from the joy of it.


End file.
